


Veneration

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Age Difference, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blind Character, Catholic Character, Child Abuse, College, Confessional, Domestic Violence, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Lawyers, M/M, Multiple Relationships, Sexual Abuse, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-26 10:57:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3848368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt has a strange talent for attracting beautiful, intelligent women. Sometimes, though, he indulges in another type - older men, gruff men, men who insult him and tear him down. Foggy doesn't understand... until he meets Stick. 5+1</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, no disrespect to the elderly intended - Matt and Foggy are drunk college students going into this, and not being entirely reverent.

Matt Murdock is stupidly attractive.

In fairness, Matt Murdock should know this. Even without the eyes to tell, Foggy made an idiot out of himself by blurting out this fact during their very first meeting. He can't be alone, either. That face is _ridiculous._

It's not like Matt doesn't date, either. He seems to run through women as the months change, and Foggy can't decide if it's impressive or sad. They're always beautiful, too, and  _that_ he really can't fathom, how a blind man always seems to attract the most startlingly gorgeous women in the room. Maybe it's just because Matt is so beautiful. Like attracts like, and all.

But aside from the mystery of Matt's wooing powers, there's this; Matt dates women. A lot of women. So, Foggy never really considers the idea that he could date men, too.

And maybe this says something more about Foggy, or heteronormativity or whatever people call it, but basically he assumes that Matt is straight. He doesn't even think about it, really. They go out for drinks sometimes or walk around campus, and whenever they talk it's, “Damn, Matt, how do you always get the pretty girls?” and, “I think Lucy in Civil Procedure was flirting with you, Foggy”.

So how is he supposed to know?

The first time it happens they're at a new bar because Foggy wants to 'experiment with his palate', as he puts it. Matt calls it something else, which is, 'hunting for cougars'.

“These people are all ancient,” he says, half-giggling as they enter the bar. They've each had a few drinks already at a more frequent haunt nearby, and are staggering into the place already tipsy. Matt leans into Foggy, one hand circling his elbow, grinning. “Foggy, Foggy, what are you _doing.”_

“They're not, not ancient! How would you know?”

A sour-faced woman with gray-streaked hair turns and glares at him. Foggy balks.

Then Matt whispers, “I can smell them,” and Foggy ruins it by bursting into laughter.

“Dude,” he says.  _“Dude.”_

“No, really,” Matt insists. The bartender gives them a dubious glance when they stumble onto their stools, Matt wiggling his fingers over the counter-top to be sure it's clear. “Do you, do you know what old people smell like?”

“Uh, old people or these old people in particular?” asks Foggy, and okay, maybe he  _has_ been having a few interesting fantasies of getting it on with an older woman. What, the thought's interesting, okay? College is the time to experiment, and all that. He wants to  _try_ it, it could be interesting.

“Well, both,” Matt says. “I mean, most really old people smell like a bit like leather and dryer sheets.”

“ _Dryer sheets?”_

“Yeah,” says Matt, warming to the topic. “Smoke, though, there's a lot of smoke here. Nicotine, I mean, it's very distinct. And this – this sour, lemon-gum smell. And some people smell like...”

Matt trails off.

“Like what?”

Matt's face changes suddenly. He turns his head, and Foggy can see him leaning away, reaching for his cane. His head sways from side to side, like a bloodhound, and then Foggy looks.

The man that approaches them is maybe fifty – at best. Probably older. An easy sixty, even. His hair is mostly white, but shot through with wisps of steel-gray. He's wearing dark pants and a black shirt that leaves the wiry, corded strength of his arms visible, boasting muscles respectable despite the specter of age. But...

He hasn't aged well, is the thing, and that shouldn't really be important – why should Foggy judge? - but somehow it is, it really is, because he's aged  _mean._ There are terse puckers around his mouth, the kind of lines gained from scowling and frowning, and his eyes are edged and hard. His gaze flickers to Foggy, then away, dismissing him, and zeros in on Matt.

And Matt - 

Somehow, it's never really occurred to Foggy that aside from looking really, really attractive, Matt also looks very innocent. It's occurring to him now, and it's a strange thought.

He doesn't like it.

“What,” he says again, not really asking. Matt doesn't answer.

“Hey,” says the old guy. His voice is gruff and low, like the rough edge of gravel scratching on wood. “You want to get a drink with me, boy?”

And, yeah, that's a bad attempt to pick up anyone. Wow. Who calls someone  _boy_ when they're trying for a one-nighter? Unless that's a kink, which, bad thought, bad thought.

This guy is setting off every alarm in Foggy's head, but at least he knows Matt won't say - 

“Sure.”

Foggy stares.

When the man holds out a hand, Matt doesn't even do that thing he does, the thing where he pretends not to expect people's ignorant physical cues. He reaches out and takes the man's arm, and he walks away without glancing back.

* * *

 

Foggy tries to be a good friend. He really does.

He watches, at first, the way the man leans close, daring to reach out and run his fingers down the longest black strands of Matt's hair, palming his cheek. He watches across the bar as the two face each other – and though Matt cannot see the man, cannot even try, he tilts his head up like he's beseeching the sun.

Their knees knock together, and at first this seems inevitable in the cramped space. Then the stranger leans forward, and his leg slips in between Matt's, his knee pressing the younger man's inner thigh. 

Foggy wants to be a good friend.

But it's inevitable, really. He can't stand staring at the way Matt ducks his head, grinning under the stranger's raspy whispers and the touch of a withered hand. Can't stand watching how he turns toward eyes that shine with a dull gleam Matt can't even see. Foggy looks away for a minute, because he has to, and between one glance and the next the pair are gone.

People mill around the bar slowly, amiably, as this sinks in.

Foggy stumbles from his seat, half-drunk but brimming with alarm as the implications finally occur to him. His blind friend is gone, alone with a stranger, with no means of transportation – no one knows where he's going - 

Foggy tells himself: Matt's a fucking  _adult._ He can take care of himself. He can maneuver around the city fine, too, and does all the time. So why's Foggy worrying?

\- Well, Matt's never acted like this, for one thing.

Matt also, he remembers slowly, has a cell-phone...

He fumbles for his own phone with incautious, drunk fingers when this thought comes to him. People curse and push at him for getting in the way. He leaves a voice-message; Matt only responds to texts half the time. This, he thinks, is as an occasion when he really wants Matt to respond.

“Where are you,” he asks. “Come on, buddy. This isn't funny. Where the hell did you go.”

(And maybe he'll laugh, tomorrow, for sounding so alarmed, so scared, about the fact that Matt disappeared to have sex with a stranger, because he scored and Foggy didn't, ha-fucking-ha, what's this, Foggy, can't take your own game, how funny, right - -

But he probably won't.)

* * *

 

Matt stumbles into the dorm of Columbia University at 3pm the next day without his cane, sporting a ring of bruises around his throat and a limp to his step that Foggy doesn't really want to think about. But this isn't really relevant.

“The _fuck,_ Matt.”

Matt tilts his head, shifting his head in Foggy's direction with something like confusion. “Hey,” is all he says.

Foggy loses it.

“Hey?  _Hey?_ That's it?  _Hey?”_

Matt stops on the threshold of the room, bewildered, then slowly closes the door behind him. “...Hello?” he ventures.

“Where the hell were you?! You can't just – just go off with some strange creep in a bar – and – what the hell, Matt?”

Matt's frowning. “What are you talking about, Foggy?”

“You know exactly what I'm talking about! Yesterday! Where were you!”

Almost cautiously, Matt steps out and moves to his bed. He kneels down, sweeping his hand under the frame until he finds what must be a spare cane. He straightens carefully, tapping the stick experimentally against the ground. “You saw me leave, Foggy. I've gone home with people before. So have you.”

“Not like  _that.”_

“What?” Matt's voice goes tense. “Is it because he was a man?”

“What? I - “ Foggy's baffled. “No!”

“Then  _what?”_

“Matt, that guy was at least twice your age!”

“I thought that was the point of that bar,” Matt observes wryly. “It's not like I found my soul-mate, Foggy. Calm down.”

“How can you – how can you just – did you  _see_ that - “

“No, I didn't.”

Matt's words are sharp. Foggy is stricken silent long enough that he continues.

“What's the real problem, Foggy?”

“The problem – I, I just - “

The problem is that the guy was disturbing, and wrong, and made Foggy's skin crawl. The problem is he should have disturbed Matt, too, but he didn't. The problem is that Matt found something appealing, alluring,  _attractive_ in a rough and old and hard stranger with an eye for a soft young student. The problem... there are a lot of problems, and Foggy, for all the words tripping on his tongue, can't articulate any of them.

But Matt – Matt's being so damned  _reasonable._ How is he making this about Foggy? There's something wrong here. There  _is._ But...

Matt looks toward him, blankly, evenly, hand gripping and twisting slow circles around the head of his cane.

“...Forget it,” Foggy says at last. He takes a breath. Forces himself to relax his shoulders, to unclench. Exhales. “Just... just tell me you're safe next time, okay, man? I worry.”

“...Alright, mother,” Matt says, acting bemused. But Foggy frowns. The tone is wrong.

He waits, but Matt turns and starts looking for his books. The moment is gone.

And, still, he has no answers.

 


	2. Matt

Matt doesn't mean to stay with Paul for longer than a night.

He never stays with them – men – longer than a night or two, just like he never stays with women longer than a month or two. He has patterns and he likes them. Patterns help him keep his room and desk clean, help him maneuver around the city on days when it's hard to focus past the roar of stimuli that threatens to drown him. Patterns are a way of coping and a way of living, and they are a way of moving forward. He needs the patterns.

But Paul, you see, Paul does something unexpected. He does something against the set pattern, and this is what makes it necessary for Matt to change his own behavior.

Even if Matt, himself, doesn't really understand why this is.

“Move it,” is how Matt wakes.

He's jostled awake by rough but not unkind motions, a gesture more perfunctory than anything. He comes to awareness breathing in strange scents; dog hair, mold, unwashed dishes and the sharp cold scent of liquor.

This last, at least, is familiar.

His head is pounding with the remnants of whatever he drank last night. He releases a muffled groan, pressing one hand against the side of his skull, then reaches out with the other and gropes blindly to his left. There's a table, he thinks, and he can't have left his cane too far away -

Something falls to the floor with a crash.

“Hey!”

The icy pinch of whiskey hits the air just as a blow buffets the side of Matt's face. He jolts at the sensation, senses sharpening as he wakens to full alertness.

“Fucking idiot, look at that, it's all over the carpet - “

Matt inhales carefully, remembering where he is, and his heartbeat slows as he realizes there is – relatively speaking – no danger. There's someone else in the room with him, a man, gesticulating angrily at the ground in sharp motions. Paul, yes.

Paul's naked, which is unfortunate – it's hard to get a read on people without the subtle sound of skin sliding against clothes. But he smells pungent and unwashed, which makes things easier.

“Waste of a good bottle,” the man adds, and stomps off to another room.

Matt stands up and manages to be dressed by the time the man returns, grumbling, to pick up the glass shards and toss them into a small bin. There's a towel, too, which is pressed into the carpet to soak up the spill. Matt pretends not to notice. He fully intends to leave. It's what normally happens.

But as he turns to go, Paul does something strange.

“Hey. You want breakfast?”

“What?”

The word slips from him of its own volition. His brow furrows, and he stops on the threshold of the bedroom door. Paul stands, still naked. Matt can feel the man turn his head.

“I've got eggs,” he offers, which is not an explanation.

Matt is confused. This doesn't happen. “You're – offering me eggs?”

“Best cure for a hangover,” the man mutters, and there's the sound of skin-on-skin; the man is massaging his own head. “ - I could use it, right now. Sit down and quit gawking, will you? I need pants.”

Matt hovers uncertainly for a moment, but the last part isn't really phrased as a request. Agreeing is easier than thinking; he moves from the bedroom into the hall, then into a cramped kitchen nearby.

Soon he's sitting, listening to the cracking of eggs and wondering what he's doing. The savory scent of eggs drifts up, and Paul says, “Good thing you weren't here last week. Water was out for a month. Landlord didn't do a damn _thing_ about it, I had to pay to haul someone in here and get it fixed myself. Bastards trying to cheat me out of everything I have.

Matt fingers the end of his fork. A film of grease comes up under his touch; it hasn't been washed well. “That's... that's not legal, you know. You can appeal that. It's an easy process. Take a copy of your lease, receipts for the repair services, water bills, and any communications to court. Landlords are required to provide basic amenities like water, you can probably get reimbursement easily.”

Paul scrapes something against the pan. The sound of metal-on-metal is grating. “You sure about that?”

“I'm studying to be a lawyer. Sure.”

The man is quiet for a moment.

“Now that's something,” he says at last. “Clever, aren't you, kid?” Footsteps, and the swish of air. The man leans forward. A dry hand touches Matt's face.

Matt breathes slowly.

Then, gradually, the hand falls away. “...Say,” asks Paul. “You coming back? Interested in doing this again, I mean?”

For a moment, Matt finds it hard to answer. His throat feels strange and tight. It's like trying to speak through shards of glass, like his bones have turned hollow and frail.

“Yeah,” he says, and that's not right, not at all, that's not the right answer. But he says it again. “Yeah, I would.”

* * *

 

They meet a week later, after seeing each other at the same bar; and it feels almost like coincidence but of course it isn't, because Matt's skin has been thrumming all week with the memory of coarse skin and hard fingers. At Columbia people part for him like the water before Moses, and he hears them whisper about the blind student, the poor blind prodigy at the top of the class, so demure, so kind, so polite. “So unfortunate,” they tut. “But he does so well, despite everything.”

Despite everything.

But in a dirty apartment Matt runs his fingers over crumbling wallpaper, and Paul says, “Would you quit it? You're creeping me out.”

There's no kindness and no softness and no delicacy, and he doesn't know how he might have responded if he'd have heard a person speaking like this to someone else, anyone else. But Matt is himself, only himself, and he accepts the words. Tries not to think that he needs them.

They meet every few days, after that, quickly and casually. And it's strange, to think of it, but it occurs to Matt after a few such meetings that he's actually much more calm – much more relaxed, more himself – here than he ever has been with 'real' relationships, with formal and recognized relationships where he takes women to nicely-lit restaurants and talks about school and philosophy over italian while maybe not even kissing at the end of the night.

Because that is a dance, a charade, something choreographed for _others_ and not for him. And there are expectations for him – there are always expectations for him – but no one will even tell him what they _are._

Paul tells him. Paul is blunt and honest about everything. They go back to his house, and Paul takes him to the bedroom, pushes him to the ground and says get-on-your-knees-what-are-you-waiting-for and this, at least, is easy.

The best part – the best part of all – is that he feels so much, all the time. Because with women he is focusing on words, on movements, on blocking the floral scent of perfume and remembering when to smile and nod to invisible cues. It makes him numb. But now he has the curl of hands around his wrists, and the bite of commands in his ears, and it's easy, almost, to sink into the fire in his abdomen that scorches down through his bones.

In church he learned that the old martyrs used pain to purify the flesh. A final tribute, a final act of redemption. He is not doing this. He is not looking for death. He is searching for life.

* * *

 

“You're acting different,” Foggy says. “More relaxed. I know that look. You've found a girlfriend, you handsome jerk, haven't you?”

Matt gives a smile that's all teeth. “No,” he says. “No girl.”

* * *

 

Since being blinded Matt can barely tolerate the feel of fabrics rubbing against his skin; he has to be very particular with clothes, but even so they irritate him. So when he visits Paul he walks around the house nude, and never receives complaints.

Sometimes – for no particular reason, but just when Matt is laying down, or walking around, or standing near Paul – the older man will reach out and brush a hand against his hip, or bend to mouth at his neck, and breathe out compliments. _Gorgeous. Fuck. Look at you. Look at you. So good._

His skin crawls and his stomach twitches with every caress. It's not quite a bad feeling.

“Look at this,” says Paul rhetorically when Matt is lounging in the main room. “Boeing stocks down five percent. Five!”

Matt scrunches his brows together. He assumes this is in some way relevant to Paul, so... “What do you even do?” He wonders. There are no hints in the area or around Paul which could give him a hint. “What, are you a mechanic?” He doesn't smell like oil, metal, sparks, plastic...

“My brother is,” Paul says. “He pays most of the bills.”

“Right.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“What?” Matt tilts his head. “I didn't - “

“Can't all be hotshot lawyers at _Columbia,”_ the man snaps.

Matt raises a hand. “Alright. I didn't say anything.”

Paul grunts. There's a rustling of paper.

Matt assumes this is his cue to leave – Paul has a strange way of insisting on treating him to half-cold, greasy meals, but otherwise company is not always welcome. When he starts searching for his clothes, though, he hears the familiar rhythm of Paul's heart tilting and shuddering.

The older man sets down the paper, and Matt pauses when Paul moves behind him. “Hey. Not your fault the economy sucks.” Chapped lips run over his neck; arms encircle his waist. The grip is a little too tight to be romantic. “I'll make it up to you.”

Matt supposes this is an apology.

* * *

 

“That exam was ridiculous,” Foggy says.

“Yeah.”

“But it wouldn't have been so bad if - “

“Don't even start - “

“Oh, come on. The professor based all the questions on material from a book _she published._ How more biased can you get?”

“I thought it was interesting reading,” says Matt reasonably.

“Pfft. Of course you do, the voice-reader for that one sounds like she's on the edge of - “

“Excuse me?”

Foggy stops talking abruptly, and Matt turns his head in the direction of the interruption. Apparently taking this as permission to continue, a smooth voice says, “Hey, I'm Louis? From Civil Procedure?”

Matt and Foggy both have that class, but at different times. The voice sounds vaguely familiar, and Foggy isn't saying anything, so Matt smiles and nods vaguely. “Right.”

“I was wondering if you wanted to – I mean, there's a party at the fraternity house – my fraternity house – Beta Theta Pi – and, well...”

He's clearly stumbling for words, heart beating faster with every second. It's a bit endearing. “Parties aren't really my thing,” says Matt easily.

“ - Oh.” The disappointment is obvious. “Ah, well, okay - “

“But thanks. See you.”

This phrase has the effect of frequently making sighted people pause, and Matt uses the opportunity to turn and keep walking before Louis can add anything else.

“Just so you know, he was totally eyeing you,” Foggy says, striding alongside him. “Full up and down.”

“Probably because he doesn't expect me to notice, _Foggy,”_ Matt remonstrates.

“What? Are you seriously expecting me to neglect my sacred bro duties? He's at least an eight. Though I'm sure you know that. Or does your eerie hotness-sense only work with women?”

Matt chooses to ignore this. “I'm not interested.”

“Cold. We're college students. Isn't 'interested' supposed to be a constant state?”

“Some of us,” Matt says, “Date often enough that we're not desperate - “

He can't keep a straight face when Foggy starts jabbing him in the ribs.

“See if I help you pick up guys, asshole!”

* * *

 

So, here's the thing:

Foggy knows he sees men.

Foggy has known this for a few months, since what Matt considers 'the bar incident'. But Foggy is not exactly _thrilled_ about this idea, which is a little strange. Matt's the Catholic, here. So, Foggy knows he occasionally has a night or two with men, but typically, Matt tries to be discreet, because it seems to upset him.

Which seems strange, since Foggy occasionally tries to set him _up_ with men, but...

Foggy's his best friend, though, and Matt's... whatever... with Paul has been going on for a few weeks. Which is about as long as any sort of 'relationship' lasts for Matt Murdock, so even if he doesn't consider them to have anything special – even if he doesn't think they have _anything_ at all – he figures he should probably find a way to clue Foggy in.

The reaction is about what he's expecting.

“Wait wait wait,” Foggy says. “You mean. You mean it wasn't just the once? Fuck, do you have a _type?”_

“What?”

“You just told me he's _fifty-nine - “_

“That's what you choose to focus on?”

“What else could someone focus on, Matt!”

Matt sighs. This is getting off-track. “Look. Paul isn't - “

“Paul,” echoes Foggy. “Oh. Great. This one has a name.”

“Paul,” Matt ploughs on, determined, “Isn't anything serious - “

“Adding an entirely fun, new dimension of unhealthy - “

“ - But I thought I should mention it. Him, I mean.” Matt shifts his weight.

“So, what, are you – dating?”

“No, I wouldn't say that.” Paul would laugh and kick him to the curb if Matt even suggested as much, he has no illusions, and the idea makes something hot and tight curl in his gut. “It's just – I thought I'd mention it,” he repeats.

“Good call,” Foggy says. “That way I can give the police a tip when your body shows up in a dumpster next week.”

“Foggy - “

“For such a smart guy, you can be a real idiot sometimes, you know that?”

(He does.)

But before Matt can protest, Foggy adds abruptly:

“I want to meet him.”

“You – you _what?”_

“I want to meet this creep, come on. If you've been dating - “

“We're _not_ dating - “

“ - Then I can meet him, right?”

Yeah, no. They are definitely _not_ in a 'meet the friends' kind of arrangement, Matt thinks. He has no idea how he would even spin that, unless...

“Fine, sure.”

“...Really?” Foggy seems surprised.

“As long you promise to keep your opinions to yourself – during _and_ after.”

“Hey, I swear on your _life.”_

* * *

 

“So, what's this guy do, anyway?”

“What?”

There's a rush of warm air as Foggy opens the door in front of them. Matt has his hand curled loosely around Foggy's elbow, but he doesn't really need the contact. He listens for the thud of Paul's heart and doesn't find it around. Good. This, at least, is expected.

He tilts his head back, and breathes slowly.

“You know? For a job?”

“Oh – he... hasn't told me.” Matt pauses. “I don't think he's here yet. Let's get a drink.”

They do, and then settle down in stools at the bar.

“How'd you meet him?”

Matt tries to find an suitable way of saying, 'he propositioned me in the middle of the street, and it sounded like a good idea at the time'. “He's very honest with his intentions,” he says at last.

“Oh. That's good.”

Matt sips his drink.

It's almost a relief when the familiar, powerful odor that clings to Paul and his clothes enters the vicinity. Matt tilts his head when a body lands heavily into the free space on his other side. He hears Foggy's heart beat speed up. The reedy whistle of blood sluicing through veins and arteries becomes momentarily overwhelming. He powers through the dizziness.

“Hey,” Matt says.

Paul doesn't return the greeting. “Who's this?”

“This is Foggy,” Matt introduces. “My roommate.”

“Nice to meet you,” says Foggy. His heart-rate rises again, and Matt registers it as a _lielielie._

“Hmmph,” grunts Paul. He looses interest immediately and flags down the bartender.

There's an awkward silence. When Matt hears the small inhale of breath which means Foggy is about to speak, he asks, “Did you ever hear back about that suit you filed?”

“Tch. Didn't bother, kid. System never works anyway.”

“Uh, it sort of does?” Foggy says.

“What, you aiming to be a lawyer, too?”

“Yeah, I - “

“Well, good luck.” Paul's tone clearly conveys his opinion of this pursuit. His drink arrives with a clunk of glass, and he knocks back the liquor in a single pull. “I'm going to play some pool,” he says abruptly, and stands.

His footsteps recede and get lost in the din of the bar. Matt waits.

“...So, he calls you kid,” Foggy says at last. “He calls you kid, and you have sex. Christ, Matt, that's messed up.”

Matt doesn't want to have this conversation. “Foggy - “

“You didn't tell him I was coming?” Foggy asks.

“I forgot about it.”

Foggy is quiet a moment. Then: “I've been harassing you about _nothing else_ for the past two days.”

Matt takes a sip of whiskey.

“This is not what I had in mind, Matt. What - “

“So, you met him,” Matt cuts in cheerfully. “Right?”

“I'm not sure that qualifies as a meeting.”

“You know, I've never met that girl in your Contracts class, what's her name? Kathy? You keep saying she - “

“Matt.” Foggy begins slowly. “Is there a reason you don't want me to meet him - ”

“No. No, I mean, why would there be?”

Foggy's breathing is quiet next to him.

“Right,” Foggy mutters finally, and picks up his drink.

When Paul finally returns, he is considerably more drunk than when he left.

“No one here knows how to play,” Paul mutters. “ - Damn cheats.”

“Sure,” Matt agrees easily.

“So,” Foggy interrupts loudly. Matt swivels his head, but Foggy doesn't take the hint. “Paul. Intentions. Tell me about yours.”

“God, Foggy.”

Paul moves over and leans against the counter. His steps sound unsteady. “I know you?”

“What are your intentions,” Foggy enunciates clearly, “With Matt. Your boyfriend.”

At that, Paul barks a laugh. “My what? I don't have one of those.”

“Foggy, stop it,” Matt sighs.

Foggy rolls on. “So, what are you, then? You've been involved for weeks.”

“What's that got to do with anything? Involved doesn't mean you have to get clingy, lawyer. Or _emotional.”_

“If you don't care about Matt, then why are you with him?”

Paul seems to actually think about this, laughing to himself a little. “...He has pretty lips.”

“Oh, right,” says Foggy, almost agreeably.

Then Foggy punches him.

Chairs clatters to the ground as Paul topples over. A dropped shot-glass shatters on the resin floor, sharpening the air with the scent of whiskey. Next to him, Matt hears Foggy rising to his feet.

Foggy twitches forward, and Matt can feel the frisson of heat that signifies tensing muscles, as though Foggy is considering doing more. Then, abruptly, Foggy twists around and grabs Matt's shoulder. “We're leaving,” he says.

Paul is struggling to his feet.

“But - “

_“Now.”_

* * *

 

Foggy doesn't say anything on the way back to the dorms, so Matt follows his cue and doesn't speak either. The air is tense and tight. Matt knows what Foggy sounds like when he breathes, but today air rushes in and out through his noise in quick, hot huffs. His footsteps are clipped. When he closes the door to their room it rattles the cheap glass of their window.

“This. This can't happen, Matt.”

“You punched him,” says Matt finally.

“Yeah. Yeah, I did, because he was a _dick._ What the fuck. Why would you think – why would you _want_ someone like that?”

“It's complicated - “

“You have so many options, you know that? You know how many people – men and women – would love to date you?”

“They'd love to find out what it's like to date a blind guy,” Matt says. “They don't care about me.”

“What, and you think that creep _does?”_

Matt doesn't answer that.

“I just – this isn't _healthy!”_

What's the definition of healthy? He needs this like air and blood, like the curl of fire that simmers under his skin when he lashes his fists against a punching bag. He needs it like prayer, like water, like life. Isn't it the definition of health, to meet basic needs?

Again he says nothing.

Foggy's voice is closer now. “You're going to get really hurt one day, Matt.”

And Matt laughs at that. “You don't have to worry about me, Foggy. I can take care of myself.”

“No one's immune to emotions, dude.”

Matt tips his head back. He thinks of invisible light on his skin. He think of ice-cream cones and piano music buffeting his ears.

“Maybe,” he says. “You can get desensitized to anything, though.”


	3. Karen

“I need _sex,”_ says Karen, and Matt chokes on his coffee.

“Um,” Foggy says, blinking with wide eyes as he processes this statement. “I mean, not that we're all not _very_ attractive people, here, but I don't think that's a workplace-friendly activity. Probably. To be fair, we are our own bosses, and all, but - “

“Not with you,” Karen snorts.

“...Okay, first of all, _harsh.”_

“I have spent way too long,” she pronounces, “concerned with work, and crazy men, and clients – I need to relax. I'm going out tonight. Want to come with me?”

“Oh, _yes,_ that's more like it,” Foggy says. “We can be your wingmen. That works, right? People won't think we're with you?”

“People will probably think you're dating each other.”

“....I would contest that statement except it's probably entirely true. What do you think, Matt?”

“About everyone mistaking us for a couple?”

“About a _night on the town._ You've been too stressed. Live a little!”

A flicker of a smile crosses his face. “Who says I'm stressed?”

Foggy makes a skeptical noise. “Yeah, no, you're coming.

Karen agrees vehemently, and it's decided.

They've all been tightly strung lately, especially since the bombings. There's still a strange tension around the office, like everyone is waiting for the second shoe to drop. As they leave, it almost feels like some of this tension is physically released. Karen smiles against the night as Foggy hails down a cab. _This is a good idea_ , she thinks.

Strangely, the thought stays in her mind. It lingers with her.

Deciding that Josie doesn't need to see them make fools of themselves, they end up at a bar called Valhalla (“Do you think that's a recent name change,” asks Foggy, “or - ”) and scope out the place.

Despite her stated intentions, Karen seems content to find a secluded corner and nurse her martini for awhile. Foggy orders a hard scotch and shudders as it goes down.

“A man's drink,” he says, grimacing.

“Right,” Matt snorts, and gets his own pink peach martini – complete with a tiny umbrella. Not that he can see it, Karen supposes.

“Hey,” Foggy says. “I need to at least look suave, okay? It's fine for you to buy girly drinks - “

“What's girly about a drink?” Karen wonders.

“Not,” Foggy raises his voice, “Not, that I mean to imply anything disparaging toward our fairer counterparts - “

“Not that you _could,”_ Karen mutters into her drink.

“But! But, I need to use my rugged good looks to attract dates.”

“And I - ?”

“Look a bit pathetic and adorable until someone takes you home,” Foggy says, and Karen giggles.

Matt looks miffed. “I am not _adorable.”_

“I notice you don't contest 'pathetic'.”

“I could easily get a date,” Matt insists.

“Never said you couldn't,” Foggy says brightly.

Karen smiles. She wonders if Foggy is trying to goad Matt into finding someone, at least for the night. Matt has seemed a bit down lately – well, they've all been stretched a bit thin – so it might be a nice distraction.

“I could easily find someone,” Matt says again, as though Foggy's arguing.

Then, a voice cuts in; “You don't need to find anyone. Why don't you let me buy you a drink?”

The group glances around at this interruption.

An elderly man is edging around the table, leaning around Matt's shoulder and showing his remaining teeth in what might be a smile. He's wearing a sleeveless shirt and dark sunglasses that almost match Matt's. His hair is patched with gunmetal gray and off-white, and hard veins bulge blue from his arms. The faint impressions of raised dots line his upper arms.

Foggy opens his mouth, but Matt beats him to it.

“Sure.”

Karen feels like she must have misheard.

“Maybe that's not such a good idea,” Foggy starts. “I mean, we have work tomorrow, we shouldn't - “

“We don't have anything tomorrow,” Matt dismisses, which is unlike him. He picks up his cane, taking the man's arm.

Foggy and Karen stare after the pair.

“...I should have known better,” Foggy says at last. He sounds suddenly weary. “When he's down like this, I mean – I really should have known.”

“He's can't be drunk yet,” Karen manages.

“Nope. I mean, he's a lightweight, actually. But no.”

“...I didn't know Matt liked men, too.”

“Sometimes I'm not even sure he does,” Foggy says. “He probably does. Maybe. Either way he sure likes creepy old assholes, though.”

“That... seems...” she purses her lips, apparently looking for something polite to say. “...different,” she decides at last.

“Yeah, well. It's just...”

“What?”

“It's not the fact that they're old,” he says slowly, watching across the room. “You know? They're always old, and I could maybe, sort of, understand if he had some bizarre fetish for nice old guys with, with British accents or interesting war stories or... eccentric tastes in _literature,_ or something. Whatever. But, no, he hones in on, and, and _attracts_ the worst people possible. Every single time.”

Karen's staring as the old man leans forward, unsmiling, and mutters something. It makes Matt shift, looking somewhat uncomfortable. The man huffs and snaps something else.

“You don't know he's an 'asshole',” she says.

“If Matt likes him, he is,” Foggy decides.

Matt shrugs. The man sticks a hand on his thigh, pats it, and says something else.

“I saw him turn down an old guy once,” Foggy adds. “Very posh. Probably rich. Had a handkerchief and a pipe, all stereotypical. Held out his arm and asked Matt to take a _walk,_  very nicely,no alcohol involved in the transaction, and Matt just...”

“Matt's not going to leave with him, is he?” Karen hisses suddenly, as though the thought has just occurred to her.

“Probably will,” Foggy speculates gloomily. He's clearly beyond the point where this is surprising.

“But... Foggy, I don't like judging people by appearance, or age, or, or anything, but...” she leans forward. “That guy? He just gives me a bad _feeling,_ and - “

“Uh, do I look like I need convincing? No convincing needed, here. I know. But Matt won't hear it, okay. He's flirting with Mr. Old and Scraggly over there, which means he's already decided to sleep with him. Nothing we can do about it. Period.”

Matt doesn't _look_ like someone who's flirting, is the thing. He looks a bit uncomfortable. He's leaning back, and his shoulders are tense, and he keeps ducking his head and running his hands over the top of his cane. But if the stranger notices, he doesn't care. The old man shifts closer so their faces are almost touching.

Matt settles his cane between his legs, moving to hold his drink and clutching it in front of him like a shield.

A handsome man with dark skin comes up and smiles at Karen. His teeth flash white in the bar's smoky light. When she only glances at him, the smile falters.

“Excuse me,” he says. “I couldn't help but - “

“Yeah, not now,” she says.

“Sorry,” Foggy adds.

The man pauses. When her disinterest is clear, he sighs and moves away.

Matt is definitely frowning now. He starts to turn in their direction, almost as though he's rethinking things. But when his new partner says something, he gives a fake smile – a pretty smile, the kind he gives to judges or opposing lawyers in court when he's really, really displeased – and the man wraps a skinny arm around his shoulder.

“Too bad,” Foggy sighs.

Karen reaches for her glass, then knocks back her drink with determination. “This is going to be horrible,” she pronounces. “You owe me.”

“What?”

She stands up and starts to wind across the room.

Matt turns slightly as she approaches; perhaps he can hear the distinctive click of her heels, or smell her perfume. The man turns, too, looking her up and down with slight surprise. “Hey there, honey,” he says. “I didn't think you'd be up for anything. Was I wrong?”

Matt stiffens more, if possible. “Hey,” he protests.

“Oh, I'm not forgetting you, sweetheart,” the man assures absently. To Karen: “Do you want to join us, beautiful?”

His tone makes the implication clear.

“Oh, can I?” she asks sweetly.

“No,” says Matt.

The man reaches out and tugs her closer by the waist; he stinks of alcohol. “You can do anything you like, with that mouth.”

He isn't looking at her mouth.

And, the thing is this: Matt is apparently fine with someone being rude and inappropriate toward him. Karen is a different matter entirely.

“You might want to reconsider that,” he says lowly. His voice has lost any warmth.

The man turns, staring. But Karen interrupts.

“Oh, why's that, _Matt?”_ she snaps suddenly. “Is it rude? Crude? Wrong? Is he maybe _not someone I should be talking to?”_

The man looks slowly and dubiously between them as the tension persists.

“...So, are either of you...”

“Leave,” says Matt.

The man makes an annoyed sound. He pulls his hand away from her, taking his drink from the bar and already turning his head to look for someone new. “Bitch,” he mutters to Karen as he passes.

Her answering smile is all teeth.

“Maybe we should go,” Karen suggests evenly.

Matt says nothing. But, after a brief pause, he picks up his cane and takes her arm.

Foggy is waiting nearby. He has clearly seen and heard everything, and he's grinning.

“You,” Foggy whispers as they leave, “Are an actual saint, Karen. That was _magical.”_

“I feel dirty,” she complains. Matt twitches, then pointedly turns his head. More loudly, she adds: “ - But I'd do it again.”

And, really, this is the point where they should all head home. But Karen thinks about this, and for some reason the idea troubles her. _Don't drink alone!_ Rings in her head, and, okay, they've done the drinking part communally, but somehow she doesn't want to leave Matt by himself right now.

“Matt, the office is on the way to your place,” she says as Foggy hails down a cab. “I think I'm going to stop in and work on a few files before I go home. Why don't you join me?”

He seems surprised. “I don't - “

“I'll make you coffee,” she says firmly.

Foggy snorts. Her coffee is horrible. But Matt falls silent, and when the cab rolls in front of the office-building, he joins her.

Inside, she turns on the lights and abandons all pretense of work. She does make the coffee, though, giving Matt his portion in his favorite grainy, chipped mug.

It gives her time to think, and after awhile she leans back against her desk, feeling the cold press of the wood against her thighs.

She can't put it off any longer.

“That wasn't like you, Matt,” she asks softly. “With that guy - what were you trying to accomplish?”

And, for a long time, she thinks he isn't going to speak at all.

“When times are hard,” he starts, slowly, haltingly, “Aren't there things you do – patterns you fall into – just, little habits from when you were a kid?”

“Sure. I guess,” she says, wondering what this has to do with anything.

“It makes you feel better, doesn't it?” he presses.

She nods. And, feeling like she might contribute, she offers, “Sometimes I walk around the park when it rains. I used to love the rain... I still like the sound, you know. And when I don't want to think too much I'll watch old movies and Pixar films.”

“Films. Yeah.” His lips twist into an odd grimace. “That's, that's exactly what I mean.”

He doesn't say anything else.

Karen waits. She's waiting for him to explain. Waiting for him to tie this in, somehow, to his behavior at the bar. To make the link between the nostalgia of rain and childhood softness with sex and rough hands.

But Matt leans back and closes his eyes. He curls one hand around his coffee and sinks against the office's plastic chair, sighing. His throat bobs and swallows. The dim lights whine above them.

On the wall, the clock ticks steadily onward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why these have all taken place in bars, I promise the next few chapters include no alcohol whatsoever.


	4. Matt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a rough chapter - please see the endnotes if you want triggers/warnings.

He wonders, later, if Stick does it on purpose.

Stick must have been watching him for awhile. And he could have approached Matt in a more private setting. He even could have intervened when Owlsley took out his taser.

Instead, Owlsley gets away. Lying against the ground, Matt hears the slow, stilted tap of his mentor's cane. He recognizes this first, then registers the calculatingly hesitant facade of the man's walk. His steady, too-strong heartbeat and sour smell.

Like dryer sheets. And vanilla.

He's embarrassed. He curls and pushes against the pavement, trying to get up, while Stick comes up to his side and taps at the ground contemptuously. His muscles are still spasming. His heart flutters. Matt shudders and lies still.

_Weak,_ he hears Stick say in his mind. As though it's not bad enough to have him be here in reality.

“You just gonna lie there all night?” Stick mocks.

* * *

 

In the early days, his training with Stick is an exercise in futility. Battlin' Jack never wanted to teach his son how to fight, and Matt learns to be bitter about this. Stick's methods are harsh, his lessons aimed at learning swiftly.

He teaches Matt to fall by unbalancing him, shoving him, and kicking his feet out from under him until Matt is sore and aching from a dozen different spots. Matt learns his lesson; he must, as a matter of self-preservation. He comes to understand that this format is not the exception but rather the rule for Stick's methodology.

Critique is handed out through shouted insults. Grudging praise is offered rarely, but when given it means all the more for that same scarceness.

Matt works very hard for his praise.

“Sometimes I think I'm wasting my time on you,” Stick says. Matt senses a low rush of air as Stick swipes at his feet. He leaps to avoid the blow, landing half-bowed as he whips one tensed arm toward Stick's abdomen.

The man bats it away with contempt.

“You're slow,” he says. He thwacks Matt on the shoulder with his cane; Matt doesn't manage to dodge. “Can't even beat an old man.”

The 'old man' in question spins around and lands a hit to his skull that makes Matt's ears ring. He stumbles and barely keeps his footing before Stick lunges forward again.

Through the confused haze the last hit has sent him into, Matt blocks two more strikes and with a burst of energy ducks around Stick and kicks out at the back of his knee.

Stick shouts and falls, jabbing behind himself with his cane. Matt endures the hit and grabs his mentor's arm, trying to push him down.

It doesn't work very well. The older man leaps to his feet and twists around, grappling now at close-quarters. Within seconds Matt's sent sprawling to the ground. His elbow cracks painfully against the dirt.

“Better,” says Stick.

* * *

 

It hurts more than he would expect, to stand and have Stick criticize him. “Hell's Kitchen hates your guts,” he says. “They have you pegged as a cop-killer or some kind of mad bomber.”

This is mostly difficult to hear because it's true.

“I'm taking care of it,” he says tersely.

“You ain't taking care of shit.”

Stick taught him that there is no room for attachments in his life. There is no room for Stick in his life. But when he asks why Stick is in his city, Stick answers that he's here to save everyone – and his heart never stutters.

Which means that for now Matt doesn't have to face the question of whether or not to turn him away.

This does not mean things are easy. Matt takes Stick to his apartment, and he shows disdain for everything. “A woman was here,” he says immediately. He raises his hand, incredulous. “ - Silk sheets?”

It makes Matt defensive again. He shouldn't have to explain his own home. Foggy laughs about his sheets, sometimes. “Who are you going to be entertaining, Matt,” he might tease. “Have big plans?” But it's never cruel.

What right does Stick have to criticize him? Stick hasn't been his teacher for twenty years. Matt's a lost cause, after all.

Stick says one thing that stops him:

“I'm proud of you. I really am.”

The words come out grudgingly – and he follows it with, “But, this? Surrounding yourself with soft stuff – it isn't life. It's death.”

This is almost worse, not because it's insulting but because it rings with truth again. Stick's heart is steady. He believes what he's saying. It is real to him, the words earnest.

Stick calls him a warrior. But that was the reason Stick left, wasn't it? Because Matt couldn't be a fighter – because he couldn't be anything more than simple Matt Murdock.

“You're worse than your old man. 'Born to lose' Battlin' Jack - “

Hitting him is refreshing. God, has he wanted to hit Stick. He has dreamed, fantasized, about hitting Stick.

His fantasies never included being laughed at afterward, though.

And Matt tries to pretend it doesn't matter, (it doesn't, it doesn't – maybe if he recites this enough, like a mantra, he'll believe it) and he agrees to help Stick eventually. Of course he does. Hell's Kitchen is his city.

And anyway he can't imagine what Stick would say to him if he said no.

Stick has more to say, though, before they leave. Of course he does.

“This isn't what I expected you to do with your training. What I wanted you to do with your training.”

“All I ever wanted was to function and live like my dad wanted. I'd say I've achieved that and more.”

_[What's it gonna be, Mattie? You gonna spend your life crying and rocking yourself to sleep at night? Or are you going to dig deep, and find out what it takes to reshuffle those cards life dealt you?]_

“I taught you to hide yourself and survive,” Stick says. “Not to run around in some stupid get-up getting yourself killed for people you don't even know.”

“What else would I do with my training?” he replies. “I can help people like this.” He turns away.

“Everyone but yourself. And what have you accomplished, really? Lowering yourself against common criminals.”

“As opposed to fighting in your war, I suppose. The one you never even explained.”

“That would be one alternative.”

Matt doesn't rise to the bait. “You're not a very convincing recruiter, Stick. I have my cause, you keep yours - “

“Cause? What cause? There are real fights out there, but you're beating up purse-snatchers and muggers. Very big of you, I'm sure. You have no idea what you could be doing, punk - “

“And whose fault is that?” Matt snaps before he can stop himself.

But Stick doesn't hesitate. “Not mine,” he says. “I didn't make you soft. You can hammer the metal all you want, kid, but you can't do anything with flawed iron.”

To this, Matt can only say: “You chose to train me.”

“And I've had the chance to regret it, be _lieve_ me. You think it tickles me, hearing about you running around and getting beat up by every Dick and Joe on the streets because you want to stand up for little old ladies? It's fucking embarrassing. You still can't control yourself. That's all this is. You can't resist helping people any more than you could shut out noises and the smell of rotten eggs when I first met you. Still have that temper, I bet.”

And the funny thing is, he hasn't thought of it like that. Not before.

He's thought of it as _using_ what Stick taught him. Not making Stick proud, exactly. Really. Probably. The thought of Stick being proud of him... it doesn't seem real. But it would be nice to not be thought of as a failure.

He didn't think his efforts would actually be found insulting.

“I have control.”

“Try again,” Stick says. “If you actually need a polygraph to measure your own heart, you've regressed more than I thought.”

“I have control,” Matt repeats. “When you showed up tonight, I didn't - “

“What? Kill me?” Stick shoots. “Cry? Pussy. Don't make me laugh. If you want to prove yourself, don't fuck up tonight. Now quit your yapping and let's go.”

* * *

 

After Stick kills Black Sky – after Stick kills a kid, a child, and won't even say why – they fight so explosively that it wrecks Matt's apartment, and later he's frankly surprised that none of his neighbors called the police. He's left picking up shards of wood and glass from the floor, a slow and painstaking task at the best of times.

Among all the debris, he finds a worn, weathered bracelet made of very old paper. After all these years, it still smells faintly of vanilla.

* * *

 

They are due to start on knives in ten days. Matt has made great strides in the past year under Stick's tutelage, but he's been excited since Stick signified the intent to start with knives soon, because this means Stick considers him to have essentially mastered hand-to-hand fighting. He is not done learning – one is never done learning – but he is proficient, and that is enough.

Tonight, though, their training is interrupted. Stick receives a phone-call that leaves him in a fouler mood than usual.

“Bastards ordering me around like I'm their bitch,” he tells Matt. “Like I have nothing else to be doing!”

“Who's giving you orders?” Matt wants to know. It's not the first hint that Stick is working with a larger organization. He makes a lot of vague allusions to some greater goal, an upcoming war that 'everyone' will need to be prepared for – and it's very clear that by 'everyone' he is only referring to all those who have been specifically trained to deal with it.

This being said, he can't imagine Stick taking commands from anyone. He could easily be the head of an organization, but Matt doesn't want to imagine any structure powerful enough to command Stick's obedience.

The reply is half-expected. “You keep your nose out of it,” Stick snaps. “You'd know if I wanted you to know. Stay in tonight and practice your form. I've got a job.”

“I could help.”

“Probably.” Matt's already accompanied Stick in taking down various street-criminals, mostly randomly selected, just for the practice. “But this is going to get ugly. I don't need to babysit you puking on the sidelines. Now quit whining and shut up.”

Matt stops whining.

It's late when Stick gets back, and the sounds of the city have fallen into the sort of distant, low-level hum of background noise where Matt can easily tune out everything if he wants to. He's practiced the latest moves Stick has taught him, and his muscles ache with fatigue. He's ready to give up on waiting and rest when the door to the training area creaks open and Stick steps in.

He's drunk, which is the first thing Matt notices. This is a point of alarm immediately. Stick drinks plenty, but the sharp stench of alcohol around him and the unusual speed of his heart indicates that he's had more than usual. Stick doesn't like drinking enough to impair his senses or his reasoning. Matt straightens, immediately trying to account for this behavior.

“Are you alright, Stick?”

Instead of answering, the old man throws his cane across the room. It clatters against the far wall and makes Matt flinch.

“Fucking disaster!” Under the overpowering odor of alcohol Matt registers the more familiar scent of blood. It's not enough to alarm him, but clearly his mentor has not returned unscathed. “What did they expect, of course I looked suspicious in a place like that - !“

With a sudden shout, Stick turns and slaps a hand against the wall. Matt listens to the sound of harsh, angry breathing, then the catch of skin-against-cement as Stick turns and slumps onto the ground.

There is no more movement.

Matt waits, but when he only detects labored breathing he slowly steps forward.

Stick doesn't move as Matt drops down beside him, reaching out hesitantly and brushing a hand against the man's blood-soaked sleeve.

Stick heaves a long sigh and lets his head fall back against the wall. It's not an annoyed sound, so Matt takes the risk of shuffling forward on his knees and shifting until he's half in the man's lap. He reaches up and wraps his arms around the man's neck, resting his head on the hard chest where a heart beats steadily against his ear.

It used to calm down his dad to hold onto him and talk after hard nights at the ring. He's still a bit surprised – and relieved – when he feels Stick's hands slowly come down around him.

It's nice to help.

The man rubs circles on his back, at first. It's very quiet; Stick's pulse thrums in his ear. Smoke and whiskey burns his nose. The hands drift lower.

Matt squirms uncomfortably. Stick's lap feels strange. His dad never held him like this. Or touched him like this.

One hand drifts between his legs; it's a weird feeling. Not a good one. Matt thinks about getting up, because Stick's fine now. Probably. But the man's other arm is still wrapped around him like a vice, and Matt doesn't want to fight to get away from him. He doesn't know how Stick would react to that.

He buries his head against the man's shoulder, instead, as the hand between his legs moves up. It goes under his shirt and rubs the hard muscles of his stomach, pressing into the skin. The fingers dip down into the line of his waistband. Matt feels a little nauseous.

When the fingers keep moving, keep searching, Matt asks: “What are you doing?”

Stick stops.

“I don't. I don't think I like it,” Matt says. “Are you alright? Or is this something I should learn?”

The hand resting under his jeans is rough with use and age. Matt's skin is sensitive, but he is familiar with these hands and also with the pain they can bring. He yelps when Stick suddenly jerks away, grabbing Matt by the shoulders and shoving him back.

Matt lands on the concrete in a confused sprawl. His head is spinning. Maybe he's sick after all. He still feels like he might throw up.

“Anyone do that to you, you punch them, you idiot,” Stick spits. “That's your lesson, you, you – _fuck,_ you're young!”

Matt doesn't dare move.

“Idiot. Idiot. Shouldn't have – you should have _known_ better, kid - “

“I'm sorry,” says Matt.

Even from here he can feel the heat from Stick's skin. It radiates like a furnace. He thinks back to the day they met. They watched a young couple in the park. That heat means love, right? Stick said so. So Stick loves him.

He's never thought so before. But Stick loves him.

“Get the hell out of here,” Stick says.

* * *

 

He doesn't have time to think about Stick – to really think about Stick – until after Fisk is in jail.

Around the same time that his nightly activities start to slow, cases begin to trickle into Nelson&Murdock. Their involvement in Fisk's trial has already brought them some attention, and it's doing good. Matt uses the opportunity, and the extra money, to properly repair the damaged steps and walls of his apartment.

Somehow, it's this that brings up the memories. The wood around the new renovations sounds slightly off. His apartment aches with echoes of the fight months after it has happened.

Foggy, when he comes by, comments that the place “Looks a little less like a homeless vagrant lives here, good job, Matt.”

“I suppose that's an endorsement,” Matt responds.

“No one expects the blind man to have a superb sense of aesthetics, you get a pass. The broken _everything_ was kind of suspicious, though.”

Looks don't really matter to him. But the place holds memories which are suddenly in the forefront of his mind now that there are no more important matters to occupy it. He can't sleep without hearing Stick's derisive voice - “Silk sheets?”

And, after awhile, the solution becomes obvious.

He just needs to sleep somewhere else.

* * *

 

Jeremy Lane has been given the rare and unusual honor of having his actual name programmed into Matt's phone – or, almost his actual name. Given Foggy's propensity for stealing Matt's phone, the placeholder for his name actually reads 'Lane Associates'.

Lane is the sort of unsavory character who is very good at sex, in the sense that Matt approves of his technique and probably no one else does anywhere. Matt is fairly certain that Lane is so agreeable to their rare arranged encounters because he enjoys the feeling of power he gets by fucking a supposedly-weaker blind man. He also has a sneaking suspicion that Lane intends to kill him one day and bury his body in his basement, and is just trying to work up the nerve. Which is fine, really. Better Matt than someone who won't see it coming, and won't be able to properly defend themselves. Matt can deal with that when it happens.

The phone rings three times, and when Lane answers he sounds annoyed, which isn't unusual. “I don't want to hear it,” is his opening line.

“That's a shame,” Matt says. “I was just thinking up my best lines, too.”

“What?”

“This is Matt Murdock. I was just wondering if you were free.”

Jeremy isn't stupid enough to miss what this means. He releases a frustrated groan. “I – fuck. No.” Matt exhales in honest surprise. Lane's never turned him down. “I – fuck, I'm really busy. Raincheck? Tomo – no – next week?”

“...Maybe,” says Matt guardedly.

Lane curses again. “Well. Tell me if you change your mind.”

“Sure,” Matt agrees, and hangs up before he can do just that.

Well, now what?

He's hardly one to call it quits after one try. Matt spends some time reading and waits until it's nearly dark before he heads out.

The Fairytale lounge in Hell's Kitchen is a perfectly respectable place, but Matt can always find the less savory frequenters of an establishment if he puts his mind to it. He's only been here a few times; he doesn't much see the point in frequenting gay-specific places, usually. But today it might provide a quick partner, and that's all he's looking for.

He extends his senses and waits for the mix of signs that promise what he needs. He finds it in a man sitting against the far wall of the room, watching everyone else. The sour-sliding scent of arousal; the humming thread of anger bouncing in his pulse; a musty, sterile tang of medication and plastic. Older. He will do.

Usually, Matt likes to string things out. It's not difficult when you know how to do it; it's even easier when you can hear the respiration of your target and detect every twitch and interested head-tilt a person makes.

Today, he's not feeling especially patient.

He slides into a seat in front of his target, scenting a tinge of surprise in the air. Matt smiles pleasantly, in what he's told is a rather self-effacing way, but his words somewhat belie any appearance of innocence.

“Want to fuck?” he asks pleasantly.

The man pauses. His heart jumps a little in his chest. “ - You for real?” The man asks after a moment. He sounds incredulous.

Matt smiles and tries not to make it seem too feral. “I'll make it good,” he says.

“I don't pay for sex, kid.”

“I'm not asking. I just really need sex.” Matt tilts his head, tapping his cane against the ground impatiently. “I'll do whatever you want. Are you saying no?”

This isn't the way to go about things. Men like this prefer to feel in control; but, making someone feel wanted is also another way of imbuing power. He waits.

The man pauses for a moment. Maybe still trying to figure out if he's joking. “Your place,” he says at last.

“Sure.”

The guy stands close as they walk, bumping into his side as though trying to warn off poachers now that he's found a victim of his own. It's annoying. But Matt's found what he needs, so he can ignore this particular brand of irritation.

Until -

“Hey, Brad! Glad to see you, we were waiting!”

Someone shoulders their way between Matt and his partner, grabbing Matt by the elbow. He jerks away, but the grip is tight. “What?” he asks.

“We're in the corner,” says the stranger unhelpfully. “Hey, Gabe, how are you? Sorry to cut in.”

“Knew it was too good to be true,” the first guy – Gabe, presumably – snorts. He turns and moves away before Matt can protest.

“What the hell? Who are you?”

“Sorry, man. But you don't want to leave with him. Gabe messes people up bad. He's – he's not very nice to his partners.”

Matt would normally appreciate the thought. To anyone else, it would be a kind gesture.

Right now, he's mostly furious.

“Maybe I want to get messed up.”

“I,” says the stranger, and stops.

Matt shakes off the man's hand. “Are you okay?” the man calls. Matt ignores him. He walks out of the bar, the raucous music fading away behind him.

He could probably find Gabe again, but he doubts the man would come with him now. The night is going poorly. He wants – he wants to beat something, really. And he wants to hurt.

He really, really wants to be hurt.

* * *

 

Matt is a sentimental person.

He keeps a lot of trinkets from the past. He can't look at them but he can touch them and recognize the scents of what has been. The equipment worn by his father during his boxing-matches smells of sweat and chemical excitement, of whiskey and oak and sawdust and something that's uniquely Jack Murdock. He never thinks twice about keeping the vanilla-sweet wrapper of the ice-cream cone Stick buys him. Meeting Stick is the start of something new. It's salvation from his own senses and the possibility of achieving independence, of becoming something great.

Later, he dares to think that it's also the chance for a family.

After The Incident, Matt holds the wrapper in his hands for awhile because he knows that Stick loves him. And this is important. Stick has been acting strange for awhile but family can get through anything. So it's fine. Maybe Stick just needs to know that Matt cares, too.

Matt gives him the bracelet as both a symbol of forgiveness and apology. He does not understand exactly what he is forgiving. He does not understand why he is apologizing. But Stick stinks of self-recrimination, and forgiveness absolves guilt; Stick is also angry with Matt, and maybe an apology will make up for whatever it is he has done.

He has tried very hard to think of what he has done wrong. Perhaps Stick will tell him, if he asks.

Stick is _never_ hesitant to say what Matt has done wrong, after all.

But Stick just takes the bracelet and crumples it in his hand; and Matt's hopes are destroyed with it.

* * *

 

If anything the frantic energy humming under his skin is worse, now, with the continuous disappointments of the night. He needs something he can't define, and going on patrol sounds both inviting and monumentally horrible. Matt enjoys violence on some nights. Most nights. Today, he could go too far. Or he could get lost in the fight and get himself killed without caring.

There are easier ways to be hurt.

He knows Hell's Kitchen well, but for once, he isn't concerned about where's he's going. He just lets himself wander, hugging the walls of buildings, walking slowly and tapping at the ground with slow sweeping gestures as though he doesn't know where he is.

It's a careful appearance, as is the soft white shirt, the tight dark pants, the carefully swept hair. As he walks one passerby asks if he's alright, if he's lost. Their voice seems a bit concerned, which is galling. He says he's fine. He keeps walking.

On West 41st Street he first hears the footsteps and the quick, eager heartbeat of someone doing a poor job at being discreet.

It's easy to wander into the mouth of an alley, lay down his cane, and stop to tie his shoes with exaggeratedly slow movements. Impatience pulses through him as the heart-beat comes closer. Skittering gravel is a dead-give away to the presence of someone else, but Matt pretends not to hear. He's just straightening when his stalker works up his nerve, letting loose a strangled shout and tackling him against the ground.

Matt lets this happen, only bothered by the fact that his cheek scratches the pavement as he falls. This guy's a real amateur, he notes; probably his first time.

Hands grip tight around arms – hard enough to bruise. Heavy, eager breaths fall on his face as the attacker looms over him. Matt leans back his head and lets his senses expand. The man's heartbeat is rapid, but healthy. He's young. Thirty, perhaps. His skin is heated with the beginnings of excitement, his skin fetid with sweat and musk.

Matt tilts his head and feels obscurely disappointed.

“Sorry,” he says. “You're not really my type.”

The man's heart jolts.

This is not the expected reaction to assault.

“Wha - “

With one brutally efficient twist, Matt rolls the pair so their positions are reversed and he's on top of the would-be rapist. Swinging back his arm, he strikes the man across the jaw, then repeats the gesture on the other cheek. The man tries to yell and is interrupted by a sudden flurry of vicious blows.

Matt might have come looking for this, but it doesn't change the fact that this guy is scum.

He grabs the man's collar to pull him up, then throws him sharply against the pavement. The crack of bone sounds like branches breaking. Matt pauses, listening to the murmur of the man's heart fade into the familiar lull of unconsciousness. He waits a few seconds longer. Then, sighing, he rolls off the limp body and stands up.

It wasn't much of a fight.

It helped a little, though. More restraining is the realization that he needs to tip-off the police so this asshole can get to a hospital, and hopefully get questioned.

He's too unstable. He's dangerous tonight. He can hear distant sounds in the city – moans and whispers and cries – and he doesn't trust himself to follow any of them.

He heads home.

* * *

 

When he goes the second time, Stick leaves him a bracelet made of an ice-cream wrapper and Matt can't figure it out. It's probably not the same one. Time alone would have eroded such a fragile thing. But it's a symbol, as so many things are symbols. Matt was an English major in undergrad but the particular meaning of this one eludes him.

Stick is returning something. Returning – love? Fondness? Is he showing that he still cares? After all this time. After twenty years. It's what Matt would like to believe. It's what the child would have believed.

But Matt remembers the crinkle of ruined paper. By giving this bracelet to Matt, Stick no longer has it for himself. He is relinquishing it. Rejecting it.

Maybe something has been lost instead of gained.

Matt just wishes he could understand.

* * *

 

He goes to his apartment because he is certain all other attempts to find company tonight will be equally useless; three strikes is enough. He stands in front of his kitchen sink and lets cold water sluice away the blood from his hands. His cane stinks of dirt and iron. The scent strangles him.

_You're getting soft,_ he hears Stick say.

He still can't sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: non-graphic child molestation, and an adult character seeking dangerous situations with the intent of inciting sexual violence.


	5. Brett

The domestic is called in at roughly a quarter past eleven. The woman who makes the call sounds more irritated than alarmed, more exasperated than worried. “You should get over there,” she grumbles. “Who knows what's happening.”

Craig Thompson has a certain reputation at the police department, and – evidently – among his own neighbors. He's not married and never seems to hold down a steady relationship, thankfully, but somehow he always finds enough partners that officers need to be dispatched on a regular basis to calm things down. Sometimes they need to intervene on behalf of Craig's partner.

It disgusts Brett Mahoney that the man isn't behind bars. But that's life.

When he arrives with his partner Avano, the apartment complex is eerily quiet. They gain admittance to the building easily enough and Avano raps on the door before taking a step back.

Brett honestly doesn't expect what happens next.

The door creaks open. The interior is dark, and it takes a moment for Brett to register what he's seeing. Matt Murdock stares blankly between the two officers, apparently oblivious to the crust of dried blood clinging to his cheek.

“Can I help you?”

Avano waits a beat, as though providing a chance for Brett to speak. But words have deserted him. After a moment, the younger officer begins, “We were called in about a disturbance...”

As Avano talks, a strange look comes over Murdock's face. His body twitches briefly in Brett's direction. But he can't know it's Brett at the door, of course. Not yet.

When Avano asks about the noises Matt smiles winsomely and assures him that he simply tripped over a table and Craig shouted to ask what was wrong. Happens a lot, he says, with a self-deprecating smile, because he's so blind and clumsy, ha-fucking-ha, what can you do. His cane is by his side and he taps it on the ground for emphasis.

Neither of the officers are smiling.

Brett is fairly certain that Craig Thompson had a different partner just a few weeks ago. But he remembers Matt coming into the station – it couldn't have been that long ago, right? - with a stitched-up gash over his head, waving off concerns. “I walked into a door,” he'd said.

A door. A _door._ Jesus Christ.

Avano wants to know if Matt feels safe.

“Oh, sure,” he says. “In fact, Craig's... asleep. I was just leaving.”

Incidentally leaving when the police arrive does not scream 'safe' to Brett. He exchanges another, resigned glance with Avano.

Hell, there's nothing for it. “Can I talk to you alone, Murdock?”

Matt twitches in reaction to his voice. Avano side-eyes him, then starts to back away, assuming Brett knows what he's doing. “...I suppose there's no point delaying it,” Matt says wearily. “You'll get your two cents in eventually. Though I really wish you hadn't been working tonight. For what it's worth, his neighbors really were overreacting.”

Brett stares at the purple tint of a swelling bruise over Murdock's jaw. “Sure. Why don't you come outside?”

Matt does, though he doesn't look very happy. That's something, at least. Getting someone away from a violent situation is a partial-victory. It would be better if he could be sure Murdock would stay away. Fantastic if Murdock would press charges.

How sad is it, that he actually wants one specific defense attorney cluttering up his station right about now?

They stand outside by the door under a half-moon and the quiet, constant stream of New York traffic. “How long have you known Thompson?”

“We've met a few times,” Matt tells him. Which isn't really an answer.

“He do this to you?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“We can take pictures. Prosecute, if you want.”

“I'm busy enough with cases, Brett - “

“You want me to get Nelson over here? I can call him up - “

“This has nothing to do with him,” Matt snaps. The sudden shift from mild-mannered naivety to fury shocks Brett for a moment. “You can't do that. He's not my fucking keeper, and just the fact that I'm blind doesn't mean I need one. The law doesn't let you go around and give out information to anyone who - “

“Jesus, Murdock! I'm not _threatening_ you, I'm asking if you want your best friend here to make you feel better. Because you look like you've been fucking run over. If you don't, that's fine, okay? Are you okay? Just calm down.”

In his peripheral vision Brett can see Avano shifting nervously back by the car. Matt's head is bowed, and he's breathing hard through his nose. The lawyer's hands are trembling slightly.

He doesn't answer the question.

Brett lowers his voice, trying to keep his tone even. He's not at his most professional right now. “Murdock, look, I'm not judging, okay? You can talk to Avano if you want – if you're not comfortable talking to me, I get that – but, listen, no one should have to put up with this. No one should be hurt by someone they trust - “

“Then it's convenient,” Matt interrupts hollowly, “That I don't trust him at all.”

Brett's silent a moment. Avano is starting to look impatient by the car. Matt twists his cane against the pavement.

“...Look, Murdock - “

“I just. I just want to go home. I'm tired.”

He looks it, too. Brett closes his eyes briefly. The air feels heavy – he thinks it's going to rain soon.

“Let us drive you back, at least? Just, just so we know - ”

Matt exhales slowly. “Alright,” he says, like the word costs him something. “ - I, yeah, alright.”

They drop Murdock off at his apartment on the way back, and Brett has enough information for what will ultimately be a completely useless report. He watches Matt step away from the patrol car while Avano stares speculatively between the two of them. Matt is limping. It is not the first time Brett has seen him limping.

It's the first time he's really noticed, though.

 


	6. Claire

Matt calls at 1:00am, right when she's getting off shift.

She suspects he has her schedule memorized. She's mostly disturbed that this doesn't bother her.

“Do you mind if I stop by?” he asks. “It's nothing serious.”

With Matt, 'nothing serious' can mean that he's holding in his intestines with his hands and sheer stubbornness. He doesn't usually call her for 'nothing serious'. “You might as well come over,” she says, and wonders – for far from the first time – if he can hear the way her heart leaps into her throat whenever she's worried for him. “My window's always open.”

He must have been close, because there's a sharp rap on her window a few minutes later – it is, in fact, not open – and Claire moves away from where she's already laying out a ridiculous number of supplies, as though she's preparing for a city-wide disaster and not the arrival of one person.

His arrival is actually a bit anticlimactic.

“Oh,” says Claire. “ - You – actually weren't lying?”

“No need to sound so shocked,” he snorts.

“Excuse me for being surprised that you're acting sensible for once. Sit down.”

For Matt, the damage actually isn't bad. There's some bruising around his eyes that will probably deepen; not much to do about that. More bruising along his arms when he rolls his sleeves up. She sees why he wanted to come when he exposes his left wrist, which is tilted at an odd angle.

“Ouch. You know, it surprises me that you don't get broken bones more often.”

Matt grunts. She's not sure if it's in agreement or pain.

She keeps chatting, anyway. Maybe it will distract him; anyway he can put up with her talking, if he's going to cut into her rare sleeping time. “Can you tell me where the break is?” He points at a spot. “Thanks. What was it this time?” she asks, pressing carefully around the indicated area. “Mafia, Yukaza, general gangsters, random mugger - “

He makes an offended sound.

“Radiated monster,” she says, raising her voice. Granted, she doesn't think he's actually confronted the last, but according to news reports about New York it's liable to happen sooner or later if he keeps up this vigilante-schtick.

Weirdly, he doesn't answer, and that's when she realizes:

He's not in the suit.

Well. He's in _a_ suit. Somehow she's compartmentalized everything – or maybe she's just very, very tired – but she didn't even notice that he entered the window as Matt Murdock, not Daredevil. Which never happens. It might be reasonable to think he wasn't able to don the suit in time to intervene during some sort of crime, but the lack of even his conspicuous black mask indicates that he wasn't injured doing any vigilantism.

She mulls over this thought as she adjusts her grip; she doesn't give any warning before abruptly cracking his bones back into the proper place.

Matt hisses between his teeth and swears softly. Claire ignores this. She's still, perhaps, a bit annoyed that he keeps turning down her offers for painkillers.

Wrapping the wrist is easier. “Well?” She prods. “I have a right to know what I'm repairing, don't I?”

It's a low blow. It's also almost 2:00am now and she hasn't eaten in roughly ten hours. So sue her.

It works, doesn't it?

“I was meeting with a... friend.”

He sounds like he isn't sure the word is correct.

“Please don't tell me you're using euphemisms now,” Claire sighs, tugging perhaps a little too tightly on his wrappings. “If you start calling your enemies your 'friends' and develop a villainous cackle, I'm quitting and you can patch up your own stab-wounds from now on.”

That actually makes him crack a smile, if only for a moment. “No. No, I – we're not really friends,” he confesses.

“The broken wrist was a hint,” she confides.

“He – I wouldn't really classify... it.” Matt tilts his head down, twisting his neck as he raises his wrapped wrist like he can somehow inspect the repair-work. Sometimes she wonders if this affectation is habitual or done for the benefit of sighted people like her; she sort of hopes it's the former. “I've seen him before, just for a night or two – he can get rough, sometimes. I just didn't see it coming.”

It takes Claire a second.

“Wait,” she says. “You – you let someone shove you around in the bedroom? A stranger? Is that what you're saying?”

He ducks his head, shoving himself up from her couch and turning toward the window. “Thanks for the help - “

“Matt, wait. Tell me what you mean, you can't just run out after that.”

He very well might – it would be just like him. She hopes he doesn't.

“It's nothing, Claire. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have even come here - “

“Oh, shut up,” she says irritably. That makes him stop, turning to her with clear surprise. “What? You come through my window, you get to listen to my lectures. I'm never going to turn you away when you're hurt, Matt. All I'm saying is, I'd rather you didn't get hurt in the first place.”

“...That's... fair. I'm sorry, I know I'm just making more work for you - “

“ _Also_ not my point.” Claire sighs. Sometimes she thinks he's just deliberately obtuse. She touches his arm. “I worry about Matt Murdock, too. Not just Daredevil. And as a friend – not just a patient.”

Matt's arm is rigid under her touch.

She tries to appeal to his reasoning. “You help so many people, Matt. What would you say to someone in your position? Someone who came to you with bruises like this?”

“I'm not really one for motivational speeches, Claire. Not at night, anyway.”

“Matt - “

“I'm sorry.” He tugs his arm away gently. “I am sorry - “ He's backing toward the window.

“You don't have anything to apologize for – I just want you to be safe!”

But Matt's sliding outside already, cradling his injured wrist to his chest. Cold air whips into her apartment through the open window. She's left with unused and unneeded medical supplies, but somehow she's feeling oddly wistful for the nights he's come to her bleeding and gasping from knife-fights and gunshot wounds. Those days, Daredevil's only enemies were just made of flesh and bone; she's not sure how he'll face up to this.

She knows he can still hear her, wherever he is. Claire tilts her face up to the cracked light of her apartment and whispers, “Be sure to come back, Matt.”


	7. Father Lantom

Father Lantom worries about Matthew Murdock.

It's not the blindness, and it's not even – completely – the suspicion about Matt's nighttime activities, a suspicion which floats between them like a soft and covert secret. Physically, Matt can take care of himself. He must be capable of this, to do what he does. But the sort of spiritual wound which turns a man to violence – the wound that makes a man wander a church at night, running his hand over the pews, breathing in hushed tones _I've been thinking of the devil, Father –_ that is something to worry about. That is something which can scar the soul.

So he talks to Matt because he likes him, and because it's his duty as a priest, and because he dearly wants to help him and doesn't know if he can. This part haunts him. There are no certainties in life. Lantom is old enough to know that not everyone can be helped. But he so, so wants to help Matthew Murdock.

When Matt enters today, Lantom takes one look at him and knows that it's a latte-day. Part of this is because the church is empty – Matt never comes in for private talks, it seems, when there are others present – but there is also a certain air to him that spurns the very idea that he might have arrived for quiet reflection. His shoulders are swaying, his head twitching. His fingers toy with his cane and his nostrils flare. He is hyper-vigilant, anxious. Something is plainly wrong.

But getting anything out of Matt is a delicate task. Lantom circles his target slowly, like he's approaching a wounded animal. Matt knows he is there; Lantom knows he knows; but the priest does not call out a greeting, not immediately.

Lantom wanders through the pews on quiet feet, watching Matt approach the altar and genuflect. He takes an indirect path, winding slowly and half-pondering the decorative glass murals that adorn the wall as though this, perhaps, will makes his actions more innocuous. Maybe it works; Matt's breathing seems a little easier by the time he makes it to the front and sits on a first-row pew.

Patiently, he waits.

Minutes stretch on. It would not surprise him, entirely, if Matt were to simply get up and walk away. Lantom would accept this and move on – all he can do is offer himself, after all, no more.

But today, he is fortunate. After a long silence, Matt – turned from him, still kneeling – starts to stir.

“Father,” he greets quietly.

It's an opening. “Matthew,” he says. “You haven't been around much.”

Matt is still for a moment. Then, his shoulders shrug very slightly. “I'm working things out.”

“And what sorts of things would that be?” Lantom prods gently.

“Nothing you'd want to hear about,” is the weary answer.

“I'm not so sure about that,” comes Lantom's gentle rejoinder. Then, when Matt says nothing: “I thought things were getting better. Fisk is gone; isn't that what you wanted?”

“Things are better,” says Matt immediately.

Automatically.

Lantom watches him. Considers. “...For Hell's Kitchen,” he says at last. “ - For Daredevil.”

And Matt flinches.

“You're allowed to have your own conflicts, you know,” Lantom tells him, not unkindly.

Matt's lips twist in a bitter line. “Oh, I know.”

It takes a great effort not to sigh.

Matt probably senses it, anyway.

“That sounds telling.”

The sound of Matt's breathing is soft and low in the church. Lantom looks ahead, staring into the elevated Sanctuary in front of the pews. Matt is kneeling right in front of it. The thought suddenly rankles. The Sanctuary symbolizes heaven – that is something the priests are taught – but this devil has consigned himself to hell.

Lantom wants to take his hand and show him another way.

He can't, of course. What Matt does can be good. It might even be necessary. It is certainly, certainly nothing he can change.

“I've done some things I regret, Father.”

The words almost startle him. _You do so many regretful things,_ he could say, but he doesn't. It would be hurtful, and he does not mean the words as Matt would hear them. “Tell me,” he says instead.

Matt does not hesitate. “I hurt people tonight,” he says, and Lantom does not even fool himself by trying to think that he is talking about emotional hurt. “So many people. One of them – one of them might not walk again. I wasn't sure another was alive until I checked. I followed the ambulance to the hospital and listened to him breathe until I knew he would live. I've never come that close... it wasn't even deliberate and I've never come that close.”

“It would put quite the damper on your self-flagellating and doubt to cross such a line by _accident_ ,” Lantom agrees.

Matt smiles tersely, but it's not really funny at all, thinking about how this mild-mannered man in front of him transforms in the night. Lantom has never seen the darkness Matt has alluded to; he never really wants to see it.

He is a sounding board and a person to hold secrets. He is not meant to judge.

If he Sees, he might have to.

“I was angry,” Matt says, and Lantom realizes he's continuing. “So – I wanted to do it, which makes it worse. I...” He pauses.

This is a frequent pattern, Matt's slow, stilted confessions about his nights. Sometimes he can't talk about it and that's fine. He'll talk later, sometimes at disturbing length. It's what he needs.

Matt changes direction abruptly, apparently unwilling to continue describing the extent of his violence. “I lied to Karen yesterday," he says, confessing to a more common sin. "Again. I used God's name in vain. I had sinful thoughts. I slept with a man - “

“Wait,” Lantom says. He mostly stops the recitation due to surprise; then, yes, he realizes that there is something significant here after all. “That one. Is this a new development?”

Matt stiffens a little. “...It's not the first time, if that's what you mean,” he says.

“But you consider it a sin?”

“It doesn't matter what I think.”

“I say it does,” Lantom tells him. “Do you think it's a sin to lie with a man, Matt?”

“No.” The reply is quick. “I wouldn't judge anyone for that.”

“Anyone else? Would you judge yourself?”

The reply is slower, this time. “...I'm just not sure, sometimes, that my motives are the same as with most people.”

“You'll have to explain that to me.”

“...I don't date,” Matt says. “I mean, I barely date women, but men – it isn't dating. And it's - “ he hesitates, taking a breath, turning his head as though somehow he can escape Lantom's judgment. “...Foggy doesn't think it's healthy,” he says, instead of what he meant to say. More quietly, "...I think a few people don't..."

Foggy doesn't. An avoidance. “What are Foggy's objections?” Lantom asks, playing along.

But Matt pauses. “It's not really important.”

Lantom reflects for a moment. Sometimes, it's best not to push with Matt, but the problem here is plainly bigger than some unresolved, Catholicism-imposed struggle over sexuality. “...I would be concerned if you were indulging repeatedly in any behavior you found worthy of guilt,” he says finally. “As for the act itself – there has been great debate on that subject, none of which has been resolved to my satisfaction. In my own opinion I would classify it as no worse an act than sex before marriage – and that happens all the time, these days. If two people come together, with good intent, I think there are worse things. But you make it sound like maybe that isn't what's happening, Matt, and that worries me.”

“That seems to be what I do,” Matt mutters. “Make people worry.”

Lantom sighs. “These encounters – you're not giving me much to go on.”

“You're my priest, not my therapist,” Matt says, suddenly a little tense.

“Sometimes I think I'm a bit of both,” Lantom observes wryly.

“...You've given me some things to think about, Father,” Matt says, which sounds like it might be true, and also like it might also be an excuse. He stands suddenly. “But I need to go.” And here he recites, almost mechanically: “For these sins and all my sins I am sorry...”

“You always are,” says Father Lantom. “Here is your penance, Matthew: Be safe.”


	8. Foggy

Foggy's not going to admit to anyone, okay, how terrified he is when Matt starts showing up covered with bruises and cuts.

He always asks about them, and Matt always gives quick, self-deprecating smiles in answer to the inevitable questions. “I walked into a door,” he says more than once, which is the worst excuse ever, even for a blind man. “I slipped and fell,” he says, and, “I just cut myself at home – no big deal.”

But it is a big deal, because Matt is many things but never, ever clumsy. More importantly Foggy has lived with Matt and worked with him and breathed in the same spaces with him long enough to recognize when Matt is lying. And it doesn't take much imagination to imagine where these marks could be coming from or why he would be hiding the source from Foggy.

He could be wrong – he wants, very much, to be wrong – but he probably isn't. And it hurts. He gets drunk more often than not some nights and sometimes stumbles over to Matt's house on a whim, calling his phone in the hope that he's interrupting... something.

Matt rarely seems able to respond. He tries not to read into this, too.

And then Matt reveals the truth – that he's the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, Daredevil, that the marks come from _beating up gangsters_ when he patrols the city at night with his crazy ninja skills. Yeah. That possibility never really occurred to Foggy, somehow.

It's terrifying and, weirdly, a bit of a relief. He can't call this life-style _less_ destructive, by any means, but at least it's a positive-pain. A pain caused by helping people. A pain Matt can console himself with, even if this reality is so, so much more terrifying than anything Foggy was imagining.

(At least he now has no doubts, whatsoever, that Matt really _can_ defend himself if he needs to.)

During the first, tense explanation Matt offers after Foggy finds him half-dead on his apartment floor, a detail is mentioned that only reappears in his mind later. It seems insignificant at the time. Another man taught Matt to fight originally. A blind man, with the bizarre, almost laughable moniker _Stick._ Like something out of an action movie.

Out of so many crazy, ridiculous things, Foggy deems the information trivial and barely spares it another thought until a few months later.

* * *

 

“Tell me about that guy – what was his name? Twig, Branch, Bark - “

“Stick?” Matt asks, snorting. “What about him?”

They're sitting in Foggy's apartment, and the remnant of the night's take-out is lying between them. Each of them have had a few beers. The stench of alcohol hangs low in the air. Foggy wonders if Matt can sense more or less of the world when he's drunk. He gets drunk pretty easily.

Which is good, because Foggy wants answers. “You said he trained you, and that seems kind of important, but you never talk about him. Your very own Mr. Mogi, man! Come on, what special wisdom did your sensei impart? Did he have you stand on your head under a waterfall until you were one with nature? Was he the cryptic-advice type?”

Matt snorts. “Stick was never _cryptic,”_ he says. “Blunt, more like.”

“That's another very good stereotype,” says Foggy wisely. “Gruff old teacher with a heart of gold.”

“...Right. Sure.”

“Go on. What kind of lessons did he give you?”

Matt chews on his lip for a moment, then takes a swig of beer. He swishes it around in his mouth awhile before swallowing. “There was always this one quote I liked. He drilled it into me, you know, had me say it a lot. Body controls the mind. Our mind controls our enemies – and our enemies control jack shit when we're through with them.”

Foggy's just tipsy enough that this lets him cackle without quite thinking through the implications of a twelve year-old having enemies. “I like that.”

A smile flickers over Matt's face.

“He seems kind of cool.”

“He could be. Sometimes.”

“Come on,” Foggy urges. It isn't often that Matt's willing to share. “What else?”

“I think I liked learning to sneak up on people best. I had to focus hard on using my senses, you know? Which wasn't great, because everything was still so new back then. It was hard to hone in on specific things, to block out distractions. But it was funny as hell to listen to people freak out when they'd turn around and realize a little blind kid had come up behind them out of nowhere.”

“You little _shit.”_

They both snicker, and Matt adds, laughing, “Once I got behind this, this short guy with the most foul-smelling wig? I stole it right off his head and followed him around, wearing it, and it took him over an hour to notice. He was so mad he called security on me. Stick was so upset that I caused a scene he locked me in a closet without food for a day but it was worth it.”

And Foggy stops laughing, and says, “What.”

“I could hear the security officers talking about it, you know, though they were trying to act all serious. They thought it was funny, too. It probably helped that I was twelve. And blind.”

“Can we just, can we just go back to what you were saying?”

“What?”

“Closet,” Foggy says. His heart is racing for some reason. Matt can hear that, right? He's trying to think but he can't quite form coherent thoughts beyond the blanket of slow, liquor-fogged rage growing in the back of his skull. “He. You never said anything about that. You never said this Stick guy hurt you.”

“No, it was just stuff like that, the closet and taking away food. He never hurt me,” Matt assures. “Not outside training. Not seriously, anyway, just minor things. He wouldn't risk damaging me in ways that would make me useless.”

 _“Useless?”_ Foggy's voice gets high.

“In a fight – are you alright?”

Matt looks a bit concerned, which is wrong on multiple levels. Matt does not get to be concerned here. Foggy gets to be concerned, preferably until Matt understands exactly what the problem is, here, and maybe is also comfortably swathed in blankets inside a bullet-proof room where nothing and no one can ever hurt him. Because, Jesus, clearly he needs to be protected.

“I think we have different definitions of _hurting_ someone,” Foggy says. “I mean. I know we do, because you literally get your kicks out of beating up criminals and washing off their blood, but even beyond that. Fuck, Matt, that's not alright.”

Matt still looks like he doesn't understand the problem. “He wouldn't do anything to interrupt our training for long. It wasn't that bad, really.”

“You were _twelve.”_

“Who's that Avenger you're so impressed by? Black Widow? She started her training as a kid.”

“According to those released SHIELD files she was raised and brainwashed by the KGB. That's not an inspiring example, Matt.”

Matt pauses. “ - In fairness, I didn't know that. She turned out alright though.”

Foggy runs a hand over his face. “ _Matt.”_

 _“_ He wanted to _help_ me, Foggy. You have no idea what it was like.”

“I'm pretty sure he could have helped you control the senses without, without training you as some one-man army. Or beating you up.”

“He was a bit of a dick, but his intentions - “

“Did he go around kicking puppies, too? Knocking off old ladies and killing orphans?”

“I don't think he killed kids,” Matt says reproachfully. “There's no point, and even Stick had limits.”

Foggy stops.

“ - I was – that was an exaggeration – _does he actually kill grandmas?”_

Matt looks a bit like a drowned rat, still clutching his drink almost helplessly between his hands. The light from the obnoxious billboard outside his apartment splays over his features, flickering in shades of blue and orange. Despite this, he looks pale. “He – he had missions, he did – I told him I wouldn't,” is what he says. “I told him I wouldn't kill. Alright? That's the important part.”

“You told him you wouldn't. So, he tried to get you to kill. To kill people. Someone. When you were twelve.”

“He was talking about it, nothing urgent. Just. The possibility.”

“Right. The possibility.” He takes a breath. “...Jesus, Matt.”

He's not sure if he's still angry of shocked or – or what – but Matt's shaking a bit. This strikes him as inherently wrong. Daredevil, afraid of Foggy Nelson? Hah. What a laugh.

It's not actually very funny.

“He was _everything_ Foggy,” Matt tells him, trying to make him understand. “He was – he told me I had to be strong. That it would get easier. I was just weak - “

“You are the _farthest_ thing from weak.”

“You don't know. You don't know what it was like.”

“No,” Foggy agrees slowly. He's starting to realize just how much this is true. “I'm – fuck, Matt, you know it's okay to hate him, right? You know none of that was okay.”

Matt takes another swig of his drink. One of his hands is now clenched tightly around his thigh; his grip on the bottle is white-knuckled.

“I'm sorry,” Foggy says.

“What – why?”

Foggy's not sure he can answer this. “For not – being there? For not knowing about – you should have said something, Matt.”

Matt chokes a laugh over his drink. “Yeah. That seems to be the theme – I should have said something.”

“That's not what I - “

Matt stands up suddenly, swaying. “I think I need to go home,” he says.

“Come on, you don't - “

But Matt just shakes his head, stumbling toward the door. Foggy moves forward, stops, then wavers uncertainly. It's not like Matt can't take care of himself – but there's more than just drunkenness inhibiting him tonight. Foggy never stops talking, but he wonders what he can say to fix this – to fix any of this.

He wonders too long. Before he can speak Matt has opened the door, and it shuts behind him with a quiet, final 'click'.

* * *

 

Matt doesn't want to talk about Stick over the next few days, and Foggy finds it hard to push. In the past they've both admitted less than pleasant things while drunk – though, admittedly Matt's confessions tend to be more serious. Foggy talks about the first girl he ever kissed, the embarrassing time he threw up on himself in fourth grade, the nausea that accompanies loneliness. Matt waxes on about his dead father, bloodied fists and sewn skin, a half-remembered shadow of a grandmother who talked about the devil in his heart. They don't discuss these things in the daylight. Foggy has always accepted this. It's a guy-thing, he reasons. Except now he wonders if it's a Matt-thing and if maybe he just never bothered to push.

He thinks about this a lot. He thinks about this when they're filing papers, when they're eating lunch, when he's talking with Karen about the news and when she leaves and the office is filled with awkward tension. He is still thinking about it when he accompanies Matt to a coffee-shop in the early morning one day nearly a week after their talk. They each get a mug and a flaky doughnut apiece and sit down. But Matt does not make any move to eat or drink.

“You want to say something,” he says.

Foggy has his mouth open to bite his doughnut. He snaps it shut, then works his jaw. “...Um.”

“You breath differently when you want to say something,” Matt tells him. “And you've been holding back all week.”

“Oh,” Foggy says. “Well, how can I argue with that logic?”

Matt stiffens. And Foggy sighs. “...Okay. Yeah, you caught me. Look, it's about this Stick guy.”

It's rare that Foggy can truly connect his friend with the distant, abstract idea of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. But something in Matt changes at the name – hardening, widening. His shoulders tense and his nostrils flare. Matt twitches his head quickly to the side, like a hound cocking his ears for prey – or predators. “Let's not talk about Stick,” Matt says.

“You were fine talking about him when you _laughed at the way he locked you in a closet,”_ Foggy says.

Matt inhales. “You don't understand.”

“Yeah? Tell me what I don't understand, Matt.”

“I made him leave – that's why I don't want to talk about it. Okay? I made him leave because I wasn't good enough.”

“That's bullshit,” Foggy says. Because it is.

“He _left,_ and he – he never came back.” Matt clenches his hand over his cane. “ - So it doesn't matter, alright? He's gone. None of it – it's not important. Not anymore.”

Matt belies this statement immediately by turning his head sharply, ducking his shoulders like somehow this will stop Foggy from seeing the way his shoulders tremble faintly. Fuck.

Foggy doesn't think it's good for Matt to keep ignoring what happened – but he doesn't really see how talking will help _that_ much, either. Not enough to merit this. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, I – but you can talk to me about that asshole if you want to, okay? You can list his crimes and I'll give him the slapdown of the century.”

Matt's lips twist into a brief smile. “He's a ninja, Foggy.”

“A _verbal_ slapdown, Murdock. Are we or are we not lawyers?”

* * *

 

Mondays at the office are slow. Tuesdays at the office are slow. All days at the office are slow, because the tiny, fledgling firm of Nelson&Murdock usually has no clients. By the time Friday rolls around Foggy is always keenly aware of this failing and carries just a bit more tension than usual.

It doesn't help that Matt wanders in half an hour late sporting a taped wrist - “I tripped over my vacuum,” he tells Karen – and they run out of their terrible coffee, on top of everything. Karen promises to pick some up later. Foggy does not want to say that he doesn't trust Karen's coffee-assessing skills, but out of her many wonderful qualities, she does not seem to actually have a sense of taste.

By 10 o'clock he's so resigned to having a bland, horrible day that the opening of the front door doesn't even register for a moment. Then he realizes: they have a client.

_Finally._

Foggy stumbles to his feet. “Hello! I'm Foggy Nelson, and – oh, wow, you're blind.”

“And you're a primate capable of speech,” the man deadpans. “Unfortunately.”

Karen shoots Foggy a withering look – his mouth runs about ten time faster than his brain, sometimes – and he tries to slow down enough to put together a coherent apology that sounds less asshole-ish than 'no, it's cool, my best friend is blind'.

Before he gets a chance, the man snaps, “Well? I'm not here for you. Get me Murdock.”

“Matt?”

“No, his dead daddy. You know another Murdock?”

Foggy gapes.

With a sudden rush of air, the connecting door to Matt's room bursts open. Matt's head is turned in the direction of the man, his shoulders stiff and his feet braced against the ground like he plans to run. _Or fight,_ Foggy thinks. “What are you doing here?” Matt demands.

“You should have known I was coming from two blocks away,” the man says. “I wasn't trying to hide myself, what the hell's wrong with you?”

“You told me you were leaving Hell's Kitchen.”

Foggy turns sharply because there's something – _frail_ in Matt's voice. He's trying to sound firm, angry. But his breaths are quick, and he's speaking too fast, for all that his words remain level.

Matt's never been great at hiding his feelings, not really.

“I did leave. I came back.”

“You're not welcome here.”

“You want to do this in front of them?” the man asks. “Really? Because we can.”

And that, that sounds like a threat. Foggy has the ridiculous thought that no one should be stupid enough to threaten Matt, except no one knows that Matt's Daredevil, right? Just Foggy, and Claire, and...

_“A blind old man taught you the ancient art of kun-fu? Do you know what that sounds like?”_

...and, oh, oh, this might be bad.

Matt seems to agree. For a moment, he says nothing; then he closes the door behind him with one sharp, angry motion. “...Foggy, Karen, I'll be back later,” he says tersely.

“Maybe not today, but, sure,” the man says. “Hurry up, kid. I'm not getting any younger.” Snorting, he turns and vanishes out into the hallway.

“Matt,” Foggy starts.

“Later,” Matt repeats. And he leaves.

It's the last Foggy sees of him for three days.

* * *

 

The first day Matt fails to show up to work, Foggy stews in a low level of anxiety but doesn't really panic. He's become unfortunately accustomed to Matt's truancy lately. Between Matt's Daredevil-ing, their cases, and other frequent surprises, it seems like Matt is rarely on time (which is, perhaps, something they need to sit down and discuss). In fact he wouldn't give the absence much notice at all except for the weird encounter that had happened the day before.

He calls Matt's phone and leaves a message – he has already left three messages in the past twenty-four hours, but another one can't hurt – and tries to pretend that he doesn't notice how Karen is wringing her hands and nervously shuffling papers at her desk. If he ignores her, maybe she won't ask him any questions, and so maybe he won't have to answer them.

Sadly, this brilliant plan fails him. After about an hour has passed and Matt has still not shown up, Karen abruptly stands up and approaches him. The sound of her heels clicks sharply against the floor's cheap wood. “Foggy, where's Matt?”

Foggy shrugs, trying (and probably failing) at looking nonchalant. “Maybe he slept in.”

Karen folds her arms over her chest. “I know you recognized that man yesterday.”

“I've never seen him before in my life,” Foggy says honestly.

Karen purses her lips. “But you're not worried about Matt?”

\- And, yeah. That's a bit harder to answer.

His silence is damning. Karen narrows her eyes. “What's going on, Foggy?”

“ - I – look, it, it's not something I can talk about, alright? This is Matt's mess.”

“You're his best friend!”

“Yeah, I am!” Foggy snaps. “Which apparently means putting up with his terrible life choices, but it also means helping out when he needs me. And what Matt doesn't need is for his private life to be blabbed all over, okay? When he gets back, you can ask him about this. Hell, I _encourage_ you to ask him about that guy. Harass him about it. If you can make Matt talk, all the power to you, Karen. But I won't do that to him.”

His little speech doesn't seem to help. Karen leans forward, bracing herself against her desk. She lowers her voice like someone might overhear them. “Foggy. Is he – was he like that man at the bar? Is Matt involved with someone dangerous?”

“What?” Foggy's so distracted that it takes a moment to understand what she's asking. “No – no, uh, I don't think so - “

“You don't _think - “_

“Definitely not,” Foggy decides more firmly. “Look. He knew that guy as a kid, okay? And he's an asshole. Apparently. That's all I'm saying.”

Karen purses her lips. “Fine,” she snaps. “ - I'll look for him _myself.”_ She turns back around and walks to her desk. Foggy winces as Karen yanks open her desk drawer, grabbing her pepper-spray and purse.

“Where are you - “

“Good- _bye,_ Foggy. I'll be back later.” She glances at him. “ - Maybe.”

Foggy sits very still as Karen walks out.

After a few minutes, he turns and picks up a pen. He does not write anything. Foggy fiddles with a piece of paper and stares at a file, trying vainly to read it. He examines the same paragraph three times without taking anything in.

Stick is, in fact, old. Which is obvious. The lines on his face run so deep, he was probably white-haired and creaky-kneed by the time Matt was at the orphanage. Foggy is not sure why this suddenly seems relevant.

The look on Matt's face when he came in – the fear -

Foggy stands up and starts to scrounge for his jacket. He fumbles to put it on and walks outside. He neatly puts out the 'closed for today' sign, locks the door, and takes out his phone as he moves down the street.

* * *

 

Matt reappears after another three days sporting a black eye and a sprained wrist. These are just the visible injuries, of course; Foggy will grill him about the hidden ones later.

Karen shrieks with surprise when he arrives at the office – wearing a suit, that _asshole,_ and acting like it's just another day at work. He tries to pretend nothing strange has happened. After she's had her fill of hugging him – very gently – it actually doesn't take long to convince Karen to make a 'coffee run' and leave them alone. Probably she knows Matt will be more likely to talk to Foggy alone, and probably she means to corner Foggy later about the details. He'll deal with that when it happens.

Matt lowers himself behind his desk with a wince now that he doesn't have an audience. Foggy catalogs the scrapes and cuts along his jaw, wondering when they were inflicted – wondering how. “I'm really glad you're back,” he says.

“So am I,” Matt says wearily. “It was – I'm not going to do that again. Helping him. But it wasn't so bad... just a job, and the guy he was dealing with was crooked, it wasn't like...” he falls quiet for a moment. “...It's fine,” he repeats.

“Well, good. Oh! I should probably call the police, or Brett, have them cancel that missing-persons for you - “

“The _what?”_

“I filed it a few days ago, it's fine. It's okay, you're here now - “

“It's not okay!” Matt exclaims. “How will we explain this?”

“We'll tell Brett exactly what happened,” Foggy says. “ - A creepy guy from your past arrived and dragged you away and didn't let you phone your _very concerned_ friends. It nicely coincides with the story I gave him.”

“Which was - “

“That a sexual predator from your orphanage kidnapped you.”

Matt goes very still.

“...And I'd like to be able to say that's just a lie, you know,” Foggy says. “Like, a really horrible lie. But I'm not sure it is?”

“...I'll tell Brett there was a misunderstanding,” Matt says lowly.

“Matt - “

“No. Drop it, Foggy.”

“Buddy, come on - “

“What were you thinking?” Matt bursts. “A predator – he – he - it was _one time,_ Foggy!”

The words swell and settle into a stillness between them. A noose settles around Foggy's heart. “Okay,” he says. “One time. One time – _what_ was one time, Matt?”

“Nothing, I - “

“No more secrets.”

Matt bristles. “You can't - “

_“No more secrets.”_

Matt grabs a binder from the desk and throws it against the wall. It dents the cheap paint, sending papers twisting and hissing through the air. “He was drunk,” Matt snarls. And he does snarl it – his teeth are bared, seeming to reflect red under the hazy crimson glow of his glasses, and his hands shudder and twist with every word. “It was – he was drunk. He loved me. It was the only time I knew he loved me - “

“That's not love, Matt.”

“He did - “

“Maybe, yeah, I don't know.” Foggy struggles to keep his voice even. “But that's not how you show it – and the other old guys who hurt you, Matt? I _know_ they don't love you.”

Matt flinches. He curls down like a struck dog. “I - “ He opens and closes his mouth, sucks a breath in between his teeth. “...Can't it be good enough?”

Foggy kind of wants to cry. _“Matt.”_

And then Matt's the one crying, except he doesn't even cry normal, does he? He sits with his shoulders twitching, his chin jerking, but otherwise his face stays calm as tear after tear rush down in glittering arcs.

The only things Foggy can think to say are, “It's okay, it's okay,” and, “Please never see him again - “

The first thing seems like a lie. And the second just seems futile.

* * *

 

Weeks later Matt leans against Foggy as they sit together and listen to the old man addressing Matt. “Do you want to get out of here? Bit boring, ain't it?”

Of course it's boring, Foggy wants to say – they're in a cafe, no one goes to a cafe for entertainment. But he swallows back the retort and closes his eyes.

Then he snaps them open when Matt says, “No, I think I'm going to finish eating. Sorry.”

He only has a coffee. To make the point, he plucks Foggy's scone from his plate and takes a bite. The old man wavers like he wants to continue pressing, but the flatness in Matt's voice seems to convince him. Grumbling, he leaves. Foggy twists around to look at Matt in blatant surprise.

Matt is holding his scone very tightly. He is turned in the direction of the door, and much of the bravado has left his posture. “It wouldn't be bad,” he says wistfully. Foggy knows what he means.

“It wouldn't be good,” he says. “How about, instead of trying to be not-miserable, you look for this crazy thing called happiness instead? I've heard it exists, somewhere.”

Matt says nothing for a long moment. “Yeah. That – alright. Alright.”

He sounds uncertain. But Foggy grins and bumps their shoulders together.

“But you can be happy after you buy me another scone, jerk,” he says. And Matt smiles.

 


End file.
